


Not Himself

by Kalinke



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:14:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalinke/pseuds/Kalinke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mer! Lin!” Arthur not so much shouts as growls in weary frustration, something that Merlin hasn’t heard before. Just like the exclamation mark following each syllable of his name. Merlin sighs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Himself

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've got a new laptop and went through stuff on my external harddrive and suddenly a wild fic appeared. 
> 
> This is ages old. Like 2010-old...
> 
> For [elufuir](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elufuir) because reasons.

“Mer! Lin!” Arthur not so much shouts as growls in weary frustration, something that Merlin hasn’t heard before. Just like the exclamation mark following each syllable of his name. Merlin sighs.

“Yes, Arthur?” Merlin looks up from where he is folding Arthur’s tunics.

“Did I, or did I not tell you to get the papers from Geoffrey?” Arthur asks, frantically looking for the sheets of parchment he worked on last night.

“Uhm,” Merlin says, “You did.”

“Right. So... Where. Are. They?” Arthur demands, rubbing his temples.

“I may have forgotten,” Merlin says, careful smile.

“Merlin,” a tired sound that shouldn’t echo quite like this in Arthur’s chambers.

“I’m sorry, I’ll fetch them immediately,” Merlin says and he’s almost out of the door when Arthur clears his throat. Merlin turns and sees Arthur pointing at a number of books strategically placed next the dirty bed sheets. Next to Arthur’s bed, so that Merlin wouldn’t forget.

“Right. Sorry,” Merlin says, sheepishly. Okay, books go into the crook of his left arm, linens draped over it.

Or maybe not, Merlin thinks, when two of the books slip out and crash to the ground. Merlin still stares at them, unsure of how to coordinate picking up the books without dropping the third book or the linens when Arthur appears in front of him, picks up the books and dumps them on tops of the sheets.

“Right, thanks,” Merlin grins, “I’ll be right back.”

Arthur doesn’t stop him this time, but Merlin thinks he can see Arthur roll his eyes.

Once Merlin is out of the door, he stops, taking a breath. He really is crap at this. Well no, he actually isn’t. Not anymore. At least not with the basics. But he’s clearly not the help that Arthur needs right now. The trade-negotiations are going slow and Sir Baldwin is too charming, too flattering. People are seeking shelter, after the flooding near Ymb. Uther is unwell. And Arthur is – for the first time – responsible for the kingdom, not because he chooses to be, but because he has to be.

And Merlin? Merlin has always been good at pretending. Like, pretending not to be horribly scared of the King, which goes really well with pretending not to be a sorcerer, or pretending to be interested in Gaius’ lectures on why pink is not a colour for tinctures, because people just wouldn’t believe they’d help. ‘Green, Merlin, varying shades of green going into brown,’ Gaius said, taking a sip, ‘It’s not meant to taste good, either. Do it again.’ And then there is Merlin’s favourite kind of pretending and that is pretending to be a manservant. Arthur’s manservant. But at the moment, Merlin thinks, pretending just won’t do.

Nodding to himself, Merlin starts walking towards the library, dropping off the sheets with the washerwomen on the way. And just before he spots Geoffrey amongst the shelves filled with very… revealing tomes on anatomy, he knows what he has to do. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Just a tiny spell or two to help him focus on the tasks that are required of him as the prince’s manservant. Something to make him a bit more diligent and observant. Something to stop him from being distracted by, well, being Arthur’s manservant.

.ooo.

Somebody knocks. Somebody knocks? At this time? This can’t be good. But if it weren’t it wouldn’t be the quiet and calm kind of knocking. Arthur cracks his eyes open and briefly wishes for another two hours of sleep and even thinks he should make Merlin do something stupid as a distraction to provide a reason to get them out of the castle. Arthur needs a break and Merlin could probably do with a day outside as well.

There is a second knock and an inquiring “Sire?” and it sounds like Merlin. The door is opened slowly. Arthur rubs his eyes and sits up. Merlin comes inside with Arthur’s breakfast, saying, “Good morning, sire.”

“Morning, Merlin,” Arthur manages around a yawn, watching Merlin setting down the tray on the table.

And it’s a bit of a surprise really, Merlin’s efficiency today because he’s really, well, very efficient and calm and productive and Merlin must have had a bad night or something, like there’s nothing left in him to argue and whine and joke. But then again Merlin pays close attention to what Arthur might need, like the red jacket instead of the brown one, which is just a bit too warm in this weather, or refilling his cup only twice at dinner and then stopping because he knows that Arthur wants to leave as soon as possible and reread Baldwin’s offer. Or getting the other candles, the ones that don’t smell like burning pigs.

Arthur can barely keep his eyes open. Sir Baldwin’s offer is not what Camelot needs (and neither is Sir Baldwin, who keeps on insisting and suggesting and Arthur is so tired of that, as well). The families from Ymb are slowly settling down, which means not so much settling down, no. It’s more like not sitting in the rain because his father’s advisers have finally agreed to have them stay at guesthouses paid for by the crown until it’s save for most of them to go back home. And finally, the king is not worse.

.ooo.

When there is a knock again, the next morning, Arthur can hardly believe his luck. Merlin is on time, again, yes, and he’s brought breakfast. He doesn’t go on babbling about some weird pink elixir. He tidies Arthur’s room quickly and without complaint. He helps Arthur into his armour without whining about how impractical and heavy it is and when he is done he asks what Arthur’s plans are for the day.

“… Oversee the first training session, then entertain Sir Baldwin and see about the people from Ymb,” Arthur says.

“What do I do?” Merlin asks.

“The usual, I guess,” Arthur says musingly, “Tidy my room, muck out the stables, repair my riding boots, and then, in the afternoon you can polish my armour, sharpen my sword…” Arthur trails of at Merlin’s confused expression.

“I-” but seemingly thinking better of it, Merlin stops.

“What is it?”

Merlin bites his lips. “Mucking out the stables? Isn’t that what the stable boys do? And- and your sword, shouldn’t somebody else sharpen-”

“What?” What? Arthur raises an eyebrow. Of course, it’s Henryk’s responsibility to sharpen the swords. Everything else would be foolish. But Merlin’s always taken it in stride. All these longs lists of things that needed to be done, cleaned, sharpened, repaired, mended and that would keep three or four servants busy.

“Nothing, sire,” Merlin says.

It’s only after Merlin has left him that Arthur realizes that Merlin hasn’t looked at him directly today. Or yesterday. Not once.

.ooo.

Arthur is already awake and dressed when the knock comes. Second knock, followed by “Sire?” and Merlin, opening the door slowly. Merlin is on time. Again. With breakfast. Again. And the porridge is still warm. A small voice suggests that something might be wrong.

So Arthur takes action. That is, Arthur observes. Whenever he has time in between training sessions and hiding from Sir Baldwin, Arthur watches Merlin work. And Merlin is doing great, really. He picks up the mended boots, tells the new cook how exactly the prince likes his vegetables, informs Sir Baldwin’s manservant that yes, it’s always this rainy in Camelot, no, it won’t change within the next weeks, yes, you should probably plan for departure. Merlin tidies Arthur’s room, sorts Arthur’s papers, helps Gaius with whatever it is Gaius needs help with, though there is an anxious look about Merlin when he’s cleaning that huge tank.

And maybe Merlin is not doing great at all. He doesn’t help the other servants carrying in firewood. Admittedly, as Arthur’s manservant, that’s not his job, but usually he does it anyway. He doesn’t secretly pocket an extra apple for Old Betty when he’s in the kitchen because he likes how the old lady whinnies when Merlin shows her the extra apple. He doesn’t smile at Gwen when she runs into him accidentally. Doesn’t say anything at all and Arthur is forced to admit to himself that something is wrong.

Nimble, clever fingers and no clumsy missteps. No bouncy missteps, either. Barely any missteps at all. No flailing and grinning and clapping Arthur on the back when he thinks he’s caught Arthur off-guard or delivered a backhanded insult. No stunned half-smiles when Arthur offers some of his bread. No careful fingers when Merlin undresses him. 

Nothing but cold professionalism. So, complaining about that? Ridiculous, really, because that’s what Merlin is supposed to be like. Except where it’s nagging at Arthur that no, it’s not. Arthur is at a loss to explain Merlin’s odd behavior, unless – and that must be it – the only logical explanation, unless Merlin is angry with him.

.ooo.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, picking at the vegetables. They are exactly as Arthur likes them, but Arthur doesn’t want them.

“Sire?” Merlin says, stepping forward.

“Merlin, how are you?” It’s carefully phrased. Subtle. That’s good.

“Fine, thank you, sire,” Merlin says.

“Are you sure?” Arthur asks, squashing the carrots.

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin says, face carefully blank.

“You don’t feel… unwell?” Arthur asks, poking his fork into the largest potatoe.

“Sire?” And Merlin tries to keep his face blank, but there is something to his posture.

“Okay… Who am I,” Arthur says.

“Very funny, sire,” Merlin says, not amused at all, but like he’s supposed to say exactly that.

“Merlin!” Arthur growls and Merlin flinches, out of surprise? Out of recognition? Arthur doesn’t know.

“Sire? Is… Did I do something wrong?” Merlin asks.

“Who am I?”

“Prince Arthur of Camelot, son of Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot,” Merlin says weakly, expecting to be wrong.

“Right. Do you- Is there something you have to say about me? My personality? Anything at all?”

“Sire!” Merlin looks scandalized and disapproving and that look, yes, that’s so close to Merlin’s ‘I like you, but you’re still a prat’- look that Arthur thinks this is it. Merlin’s going to break and laugh and say, ‘just a joke, Arthur.’ But Merlin doesn’t and Merlin wouldn’t. He may be an idiot, he is most definitely an idiot, but he is not cruel. Not like this.

So instead Arthur tries, “You look tired,” Arthur tries.

“I am,” Merlin says. Short and to the point.

“Why?”

“I didn’t sleep.”

“Why didn’t you sleep?”

“I was cleaning your armor,” Merlin says, his attention focused on the floor. “Do you need anything else? If not…” Merlin gestures at the floor as if he wants to… scrub it? What the hell is going on?

Arthur looks over at his armor. Very shiny. Not quite as polished as it would normally be, but a good job nonetheless and something is horribly wrong because Arthur knows for a fact that there are only two ways Merlin cleans his armor. Ridiculously superficial around Arthur and brought to a perfect shine when Merlin is alone. Arthur’s never questioned it, but he knows that there is no way to get rid of the dirt that’s crept into the carvings over the years and that Merlin did get rid of it the first time he cleaned the armor.

“Merlin. Sit.” Arthur says, shoving the plate away. “You will do what I ask you to do?”

“Of course sire,” Merlin says, brows creased in anxiety.

“Merlin, what did you do?” Arthur asks.

Merlin shakes his head, presses his lips together.

“Merlin, answer me. Please. What did you do?” Arthur kneels before Merlin.

And Merlin's struggling now. Arthur can see how Merlin is trying to force the answer into a different shape and that's when it dawns on Arthur what Merlin might have done.

And Arthur knows that he doesn’t want to know. Can’t find out, not like this. 

“Don’t tell me,” he says, and Merlin frowns.

“Like this, you are perfect,” Arthur says. He looks down, before continuing, “the perfect manservant. All I could ever ask for.”

“Sire?” Merlin asks.

“Merlin, I don't need you to be perfect. Whatever you are doing, whatever you,” here he hesitates, “whatever you did and however you did it... Undo it. Please?”

.ooo. 

There is no knock. Arthur is asleep and then not anymore, woken up by an apple hitting him square in the chest. And right then Merlin's bright grin feels like an actual blow to the chest. 

 

The End


End file.
